Good night my Lion Heart; Good night my King.

 

I sing to him.

An’ sometimes he sings along.

I hear him hold fast to my voice

When the strength in him persists.

I hear him drift away

When heavy slumber pulls him in. 

He loves me;

A high as the trees,

As high as the stars,

Wide as an ocean,

A million, million oceans.

He’ll insist on one more song,

One more hug ,

One more kiss,

A million, million more if he could.

I too insist

On one more kiss,

A million, million more if I could.

"Good night, my Lion Heart."

"Good night, my king."  

 

 

 

 

 

One of Callum's favorite songs I sing for him at bed time is King and Lionheart by Of Monsters and Men. He is always the Lionheart.

 

 

 

 

Rolling Back to Base

    or

Singing Pink Floyd in the Back of a Duece and a Half

In a wonderful world
That smells of burning garbage,
Cordite and viscera,
We’re stuck behind the sight of our weapons.

As the sun starts to settle
Out beyond the edge of the world,
The burden of heat starts to fade
In measure with the light.

The quiet din of a bleak and tired man
Softly rises,
    “So, so you think you can tell…”.

Before he conjures the words
    “Heaven from hell”,
It crescendos wickedly to a full choir
Of cadence-strong voices;
Flippant and cock-sure.


Eyes wide and mean,
We roll through hell
In harmony.


Jubilant, we chime at the top of our voice,
      “How! How I wish you were here!”
We never truly did wish any one
Into our hell.
Only that they knew of us.


For surely we felt forgotten .

Chocolate Pudding

I remember this one thing.
She had prepared a treat,
Instant pudding and Cool Whip
Placed in serving dishes.

Gathered on a platter,
Parental, familial, domestic inspiration
From a Good Housekeeping spread.
“Quick treats for the loved ones in your life.”

The presentation alone,
Made the simple victuals,
Seem luxurious and fine
To a child.

But, that’s not the thing I remember.

It was the strange curiosity
I felt.
The lack of excuse, need,
Or celebratory affair.

The random event, so poignantly void of obligation,
And presented to us
With a white hot glow of lunacy and glee,
Never seen before (and never seen again).

My imagination vacillates on the etiology
Of her sudden, abrupt, and unusual behavior;

Maniacal rush of joy
Too much Mother's Little Helper
Spite for my father
The zenith of effort to effuse love.

This was one of the greatest outward expressions of love
My mother had,
Culminating in 5 minutes of mixing milk and powder
And placed in dainty dishes.

I ate the pudding
With the guarded joy,
That a turkey eats his meals,
In November.

Never knowing why.